


Turned to Silver Glass

by Accidental_Ducky



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Canon-Typical Violence, Curses, Derek Hale is tired of Scott's shit, Established Relationship, F/M, Fairy Tale Style, M/M, Scott McCall is a Ray of Sunshine, Stiles Stilinski is an Argent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-22
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-23 20:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20346451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Accidental_Ducky/pseuds/Accidental_Ducky
Summary: The King in the Woods is nothing like Scott expects; a tall, lithe figure with golden claws and black hands that fade to milky white halfway up the forearms. He’s dressed in a pair of black trousers, a veil made of spider webs hanging from the crown of his head, the white strands glowing in the moonlight. When he speaks, it makes something in Scott’s chest shatter.Did you know that sometimes the Argent boys are sacrificed? Turns out the curse works differently on them.“You,” Scott breathes, tears stinging his eyes. “It’s you.”





	1. open your heart and hands, my son

The woods are dense with only the barest hints of sunlight managing to break through the canopy, dappled against soft grasses and flowers. There’s one flower in particular that’s whispered about in the village, yellow as sunlight and hidden in the darkest part of the woods. It’s said that it can cure any illness, even the worst ones. That’s why Scott is standing at the edge of a path, a heavy pack weighing down his shoulders.

It’s also said that there’s fae things in the woods, creatures of myth that are said to protect the flower with vicious intent. Everyone’s seen glimpses of red eyes through the trees, cackling laughter and blood-curdling howls that are carried on the wind. Not even the Argents hunt in these woods.

“We have to do something,” Chris had muttered that morning, brow damp with sweat. “She’s dying.”

“The poison is too advanced now,” Victoria had hissed back at him. Neither had paid any attention to their son-in-law as he stayed crouched protectively over Allison, patting at her fevered cheeks with a damp cloth.

“If we could get the flower, then—”

“The flower is a myth, Christopher. Our daughter is dying and our family along with her. There’s no hope left.” Victoria had stormed out of the house after that, expression cold in spite of the tears glittering in her eyes. Chris had collapsed in a chair near the fireplace, head in his hands and shoulders heaving.

That’s why Scott’s alone at the edge of the woods, armed only with a knife he’d stolen from Victoria’s desk. Someone has to at least try to get the flower and it may as well be him. Besides, it’s not like he’ll be missed if he’s torn to pieces by some ghoul or other; his parents are long dead and his wife is too far gone in her delusions to even recognize him half the time. It’s best that it’s him.

The path used to be well-worn, but now it’s abandoned and overgrown with grass and weeds. He’s careful as he navigates them, knowing that to trip and break his neck won’t help Allison. He ducks his head and weaves his way past old roots and feels a chill race down his spine once he enters the forest proper.

The light behind him is like a curtain of gold, in front of him stretches endless darkness with the occasional dappling of light. If he turns around now and heads back, then no one will realize he’d left at all. If he goes back, Allison will succumb to the poison running rampant in her body.

So Scott keeps going.

_You know, that forest didn’t used to be so terrifying._

“Really,” Scott asks, glancing over at the other boy. He’s lounging in Scott’s bed, pale fingers flexing in the sunlight streaming in. He’s fascinated by it, enchanted. “How do you know?”

_I just do. All Argents do_. He shrugs one shoulder, uncaring that his shirt has slid down to bare more pale skin. There’s a bruise there, a burst of dark purple and blue, the shape matching Scott’s own teeth. He’d made that bruise just last night, both boys still moon drunk from the winter solstice. They’re eighteen, in love, and quite unable to show it in public. Everyone knows that Scott is engaged to Allison. He doesn’t love her, but he thinks that maybe he can one day. _You alright, Scotty?_

“I’m fine. Tell me about the forest.”

_Dad says that the King in the woods and the leader of our village used to get along until the leader’s daughter snubbed the King. She refused his hand in marriage because she was in love with another human. The King snuck into the village after dark and slaughtered the human before laying a curse on the daughter_.

“What was the curse?”

_That all the girls in her line would fall ill on their twenty-fifth birthday. Sometimes, when no girls are born or the family cherishes her above all else, the curse will attach itself to the boy. They will feel a pulling in their chest and be drawn to the woods. Either way, each generation suffers a loss._

“Do you think it’s real? The curse, I mean?”

_It killed my aunt Kate._ Scott swallows hard, remembering the way the Argents always dress in black for a full week in August, the way the twins will cling to each other like they’re the only things keeping each other grounded. _There’s supposed to be a cure, though_.

“Really?”

_Yeah. After the daughter died, the King stole of lock of her hair and brought it with him to the darkest part of the forest. He buried the hair and spoke a rite over it. It’s called Silver Glass and it’s supposed to have bright yellow petals as soft as a maiden’s lips and grow overlooking a pond that’s still as a mirror. You only need one petal to lift the curse, boil it in water and have the afflicted person drink it._

“If it’s so easy to break the curse then why hasn’t it been done?”

_Because it isn’t easy, Scott. The King is jealous and possessive, so he makes sure no one can get to it. I gotta try, though. I can’t lose Ally_.

The forest is hard to navigate, but Scott is determined and doesn’t even care how many times he whacks his head against a branch. He’s pretty sure it’s the same branch, though. He’s been going in a large circle for the past hour and can’t seem to find his way out of it. He has to stop for a minute, hands on his knees as he tries to catch his breath. He breathes slowly, in his nose and out his mouth, until his heart doesn’t feel like it’s trying to dance its way out of his chest.

“This was so much easier in my head,” he grumbles to himself. “I always forget that I’m not the athletic one.” That had been Allison before the curse struck, a heady poison that sapped her strength and then her mind.

Once the wheezing has stopped, Scott straightens and begins walking again. He tries his best to follow the path, but it cuts off in random directions and doubles back on itself, sure to drive him out of his mind. Maybe that’s the whole point of it, to drive the humans mad before they have a chance to find Silver Glass. Maybe…. Maybe the path is a distraction.

Scott steps to the side, past the gnarled roots of half-dead trees, stepping among the soft grass and clovers. There’s a tremble beneath him, like the ground is shifting, and then it settles again. When he looks back, the curtain of light is gone and so is the path, but that’s fine. It was just a distraction.

He makes his own path in the trampled earth, keeping his eyes carefully ahead of him instead of on the will-o’-the-wisps dancing along the edge of the path, trying to draw him away from his goal. If he gets distracted then it’s all over, Allison will be dead, and he’ll belong to the fae. So he keeps going, reciting a poem under his breath that his lover used to repeat.

“O’er the strange woods, o’er the sea—over spirits on the wing, over every drowsy thing. And buries them up quite in a labyrinth of light….”

“Why do you like that poem so much?” The boy shrugs and rolls over in the grass so that he’s on his stomach, head cushioned on his arms. The light is soft as it bathes him, making him look almost like one of the faeries in that poem.

_I just do_, he says. _It might come in handy someday_. Scott had laughed and shaken his head, running a hand over bare skin. The boy arches into the touch like a cat getting its back scratched, Scott laughing under his breath. He loves these moments, quiet things far removed from the village.

“Why don’t you recite something else? Something happy, maybe.”

_The poem makes me happy_. He looks up at Scott with eyes brown as the soil beneath them, dark things that remind Scott of graveyard dirt. He can see his own reflection in them if he looks hard enough, shaggy hair and a crooked jaw. _Maybe you can say it every now and again after you marry my sister._

“You’ll still be around to recite it.” But the flitting expression of worry has Scott’s stomach tying itself up into knots. He thinks of that curse, of the flower with all the answers and the way the other boy sometimes grows melancholy as he gazes into the forest. It’s only a few feet away and Scott finds himself holding onto his lover’s wrist in case he tries to run into the foliage and disappear.

_Just promise me you won’t forget about me. That happens sometimes and I just…. I want to know someone around here will remember_.

“I’ll always remember you. I love you.” Lashes flutter as brown eyes closed, and then there’s a warm body snuggled tightly against Scott, even breaths washing over his neck. “Recite that poem again.”

_Dim vales and shadowy floods and cloudy-looking woods, whose forms we can’t discover for the tears that drip all over_….

Scott doesn’t know how long he’s been walking, but he’s soaked through with sweat and his legs are shaking, so he lets himself rest. The sunlight has faded away at some point and he can make out a couple of stars through the thick canopy overhead, spots of cold, distant light. His absence will have been noted by now and he wonders if everyone thinks he cut all ties and ran away. Do they think he abandoned his wife? His baby? It doesn’t matter, he’ll come back with the flower and everything will be alright. His daughter will never be cursed like his wife has been.

_Did you know that my uncle ventured into the woods?_

“No one ever told me.”

_He went in place of my mom. We never saw him again. He must have done the ritual wrong because Aunt Kate was still cursed._

“There’s a ritual?”

_Oh yeah. Everything has a ritual and taking the full force of the curse is no different._

“Do you know all about it?” Scott means it to come out teasing, but there worry gnawing on the words. The boy shifts in bed next to him, running sharp nails gently over Scott’s heart. His smile is a faded thing, worn away by time and exhaustion.

_I know all the details apart from one_.

Sometimes Scott dreams of brown eyes and a voice that calls to him from the forest.

He’s pretty sure he’s forgotten something crucial.

The funeral was held on a sunny day, an elaborate coffin that’s lowered into the ground and covered with dirt and flowers. Allison sobs against Scott’s chest and her hair tickles his nose. Victoria and Chris are stone-faced but their fingers are tangled together tight enough that their knuckles are white. They’re burying their son today.

The tombstone is etched with a name, carefully done by Liam and set by Isaac, close friends. Scott will come to visit the grave once a year, bringing buttercups with him because he remembers that old story he’d been told about the Silver Glass flower. He remembers a poem and a voice that rolled over his skin like silk, and a pair of eyes nearly black in color. He doesn’t remember their name, but he remembers loving them.

The name on the tombstone disappears after the first month and no one fixes it. No one even thinks to.

Scott falls asleep on a bed of moss and leaves, and he thinks he sees a pair of blue eyes watching him from the deep gloom of the shadows. He closes his eyes but doesn’t sleep until the feeling of being watched fades. He dreams that he’s back in the cemetery, looking down at two headstones that rest side by side, weathered by time. The fronts are unmarked, worn smooth.

He knows who those stones belong to, their names dance on the tip of his tongue, but he can’t force them out. It’s like if he can just remember their names then this curse will be broken. If he could just _remember_. But he can’t and he wakes up with a lump in his throat and tears cold against his cheeks.

There are blue eyes gazing at him through the gloom, closer this time. Scott gets up and starts walking again. The eyes follow him, but he can’t bring himself to care as he pushes his way past reaching branches and leaves as big as his head.

They’re nineteen and dressed in wedding finery, whites and silvers with accents of gold thrown in because the Argents are one big cliché. The boy is now a man as he walks with Scott down the aisle towards the village’s priest, a man named Deaton that also serves as a physician. He’s stern and imposing and Scott loves it when his lips quirk up into a shadow of a smile.

_Just remember that I’m obliged to kick your ass if you break my sister’s heart_. The words are whispered, a gentle huff of breath against Scott’s ear. He doesn’t say anything in return, but he manages a smile as he glances over at the man. He’s got a big grin that reveals too many teeth, a forced thing that makes fissures spread over Scott’s heart. They both know this means an official end to their relationship, a death.

The wedding and subsequent reception pass by in a blur, Scott and Allison sitting at the head of a long table with her parents on either side of them. Neither of them noticed as Allison’s brother slipped out early, no one seems to remember him at all until a month passes with no sign of him.

Guilt floods through Scott and he can feel those fissures begin to deepen, blood pumping into his chest. It’s an ache like he’s never felt before and it doesn’t go away over the next six years, but his daughter is like a cool salve. It still hurts, but little Hayden makes him feel like he can stay alive for a bit longer.

Scott’s running.

His chest is tight and his breaths are little more than desperate gasps, but he can’t stop. The blue-eyed creature is following him, still mostly hidden by the trees, a brief flash of white fang seen whenever the thing behind Scott gets a little too close. There’s howling behind him, the thundering of heavy paws hitting the earth.

“Please,” he gasps. “Please, I don’t mean to disturb any of you! I just need to save my wife!” The sounds behind him grow louder and Scott cuts to the right, barreling through the pines until there’s no ground under his feet. The fall is short and fast, Scott landing on a bed of pine needles at the bottom of some trap or another, staring up at the canopy. “Help!”

There’s another howl above him, a pair of bright yellow eyes glowering down at him. His breath catches in his throat, frozen in place. The beast watches him, head tilted to the side before a low growl draws its attention away, the beast sprinting off into the woods. Scott doesn’t move at first, not until he hears the creaking of bones and then a man is staring down at him.

“Who- Who are you?”

“Derek,” the man answers. He crouches at the edge of the hole, scowling as he looks Scott over. Scott can’t look too impressive; his clothing is torn and stained, palms bloody from all the times he’s fallen, his shoes missing. “You’re human.” The word _human_ is spat down at Scott, like it’s the filthiest word that’s ever rolled off Derek’s tongue.

“And you’re a Werewolf.” Derek nods, the scowl still firmly in place. Scott wonders if this man has ever smiled before or if his entire life has been one big tragedy. There are no fine lines around his mouth, no crinkles by his eyes, just that scowl. “Can you help me out of this hole?”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll eat you?”

“I’ll worry about that later.” The scowl doesn’t drop away, but Derek offers out a hand and pulls Scott up without even a grunt of effort. “What was that other thing that was chasing me?”

“That was just Malia. She won’t hurt you. She just likes to spook the humans.” Scott looks over his shoulder in the direction Malia had gone in, spotting the glow of yellow eyes watching him. “Why are you here?”

“My wife is cursed, and I need a specific flower to save her.” Derek’s eyes go hard, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he clinches his teeth. “It’s called Silver Glass. Do you know it?”

“Only too well.”

“Can you take me to it?” Derek doesn’t answer at first, gazing up at the canopy and letting his eyes glow that eerie blue. They remind Scott of the flowers twined around the wooden slats of Hayden’s cradle, forget-me-nots. His lover had tended to the gardens and those had always been his favorites, which was pretty ironic since no one can recall the man’s name. “Derek?”

“I’ll take you, but you listen to me and follow close.”

“Think we can be friends?”

“Not on your life.”

Derek, as it turns out, doesn’t appreciate Scott’s sense of humor or his bright outlook on life.

Actually, Scott’s pretty sure Derek just doesn’t like _him_.

_Werewolves can eat an entire horse and still be hungry_.

“Are you trying to scare our horses,” Scott asks. They’re ten and this is their first time riding without an escort. Scott loves animals, spends most of his free time helping Danny in the stables, but riding has always made him nervous. His father died after being bucked off a horse, that’s the sort of thing that sticks with someone. It had certainly stuck with his mother.

_It’s true, though. My mom told me all about it_.

“Your mom is scary. I bet she could put down a Werewolf without flinching.” The other boy purses his lips as he thinks that over, then dips his head in a nod. Victoria Argent is the leader of their village, of the far-reaching Argent family, and she’s the most intimidating person Scott’s ever met. Maybe that’s why Melissa wanted her son to live with them after she passed, because Victoria protects what’s hers.

_We should probably head back. Dad will start to worry_.

“Don’t be an idiot, those berries will kill you.”

“I’ve been eating them this entire time, Derek.” Derek strolls away without another word, grabbing a handful of berries off the same bush as Scott, popping them in his mouth. “Are you joking? Was that your attempt at a joke?” Scott scrambles to catch up with him, still holding the purple berries in his hand. “That wasn’t funny.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, you need to start out slow. Maybe tell a joke.”

“What kind of joke?” He’s being sarcastic, his tone doesn’t change, but Scott’s getting better at reading him. They’ve been together a week now, Derek helping him avoid more traps and occasionally popping something off that might have been funny if not for the fangs. Victoria would hate Derek, but Allison would adore him.

“Why is leather armor the best for sneaking?”

“If the answer is _because it’s made of hide_, I’ll break you like a twig.”

Scott’s winning him over, he can feel it.

There are more eyes watching Scott than there were before, blue and yellow, gleaming in the dim light between trees. Derek calls them pack, though not all of them are ‘wolves. He calls them family, protection from other things that live in the woods. Scott’s never able to see their faces, but he does glimpse the occasional gray fur or sleek green scales.

_Unnatural_, Victoria would call them. _Abominations_.

_Extraordinary_, his lover would breathe. _Perfection_.

Scott likes to watch them back when Derek is asleep, and nightmares are too close. The way he can see thick muscles bunching up under the fur, how Malia darts around the trees with all the ease of something supernatural despite the coyote’s body she inhabits. She comes closer than the others on the quiet nights, but never close enough for Scott to touch and never in a human’s body.

He talks to the others sometimes, just ramblings that he used to share with his lover, and sometimes the pack responds in their own ways. It’s not the same, though. There’s no laughter or gentle caress of fingers over his chest, no lightness that comes with good conversation.

Scott finds himself missing his family. Not just the Argents and his baby, but the others too. The way his mom would card her fingers through his hair, his dad would hug him tight enough that all the air seemed to rush out of him, the way his lover would leave flowers on Scott’s pillows during the spring and summer months. He feels untethered in these woods, like he’s lost his anchor.

_Sometimes you just have to be your own anchor_, Melissa had said one night. So Scott closes his eyes and tries to remember that as the nightmare washes over him.

Derek sleeps restlessly most nights, growling low in his chest and swatting at invisible enemies with claws. The first few nights Scott isn’t sure how to help him, but then he learns that the ‘wolf has a secret love of poetry. Whenever Derek starts to thrash in his sleep, Scott recites that old poem and watches with slight satisfaction as his new friend calms.

“Huge moons there wax and wane—again, again, again—every moment of the night. Forever changing places and they put out the star-light with the breath from their pale faces.” The harsh lines carved into Derek’s face begin to fade as he relaxes into a deep sleep, claws retracting from the gouges they’ve made in the dirt.

Scott relaxes next to him, staring up at the canopy. It’s little more than a dark silhouette at this point, thicker now that they’re deeper in the woods. Halfway there and Scott can’t wait to get one of the petals. One petal and his family will be safe for generations to come. One petal and he gets his wife back and never has to worry about his daughter. Just one petal.

He’s been gone a month.

“And that’s why I’m not allowed to give toasts anymore,” Scott finishes succinctly. Derek, walking beside him, rolls his eyes so hard that Scott’s surprised when they don’t break.

“Only you would accidentally drop an entire champagne flute on the leader of a village.” Scott shrugs, secretly pleased when he remembers the expression of surprise on Victoria’s face. Across the hall, Deaton had snorted champagne out of his nose and that’s Scott’s greatest accomplishment in life. Aside from, you know, making an entire human baby.

“It was worth it.”

“Are you sure?”

“She only hates me a little bit.” He shrugs, preening at the way Derek’s scowl lessons. It’s as good as a smile when it comes to Derek. “Did you know she almost refused to take me in after my mom died? Said I’d be a bad influence on her children.” Derek makes an uncommitted sound in reply, Beta blue eyes scanning the trees. “Chris convinced her to let me live with them. He and my mom grew up together, they almost got married.”

“I never asked to hear your life’s story.”

“Your friends are supposed to know about your life.”

“We’re not friends.”

“Then why are you walking around with me?” Derek doesn’t have an answer for that, thick brows drawing down over his eyes. Those brows would intimidate most people, but most people haven’t been lashed by Victoria Argent after dropping her favorite vase out a second-story window just to see what would happen. “It’s because you want a friend.”

“I have a pack.”

“And how often does your pack make you laugh?”

_“You_ don’t make me laugh.”

“Give me time. I’m a very funny person.”

“Did your mother tell you that?” Scott’s smile slips away, remembering a hushed conversation from what seems like ages ago. Two boys laying out in the meadow near the woods, surrounded by wildflowers and the scent of spring. _You’re funny, Scotty_, his lover had said. _Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise_.

“Someone I was close with, actually. I loved him.” _I still do_ goes unsaid, but it hangs in the air between them. Scott remembers silky strands of hair wrapped around his fingers, a smattering of beauty marks that made a body writhe under him whenever he kissed them. Scott misses those days, the scent of burnt sugar and sounds of unending laughter. Scott had been freer back then.

“What happened to him?”

“He died.”

The trees are beginning to thin when Derek suddenly goes rigid next to Scott, one meaty hand coming out to push him behind his bulk. “What is it,” Scott asks, looking around.

“Just me,” a man says, stepping out of the shadows. He’s tall and corded with muscle, pink scar tissue surrounding blind eyes. Scott blushes when he realizes the man is naked, slathered with mud and leaves, the very epitome of a wild thing. “I was curious why I could smell a human in the deep dark woods.”

“None of your business,” Derek growls.

“Now, now, no need for that. I’m not going to hurt the boy.” Derek keeps one hand fisted in Scott’s shirt, claws pricking his chest through the fabric. “What is your name, boy?”

“Don’t tell him.” Scott’s mouth snaps shut as he remembers almost too late that he should never give his name out freely to the fae. A name has power and not every creature is as kind as Derek. “Leave us be, Deucalion.”

“He smells of the Argents.” The man, Deucalion, bares his teeth in a grotesque impersonation of a smile, all fangs. The cloudy eyes glow the red of an Alpha, a low growl making Scott’s bones vibrate and his teeth clench. Derek stays strong, however, watching Deucalion with a bored indifference. “Is he here for the flower?”

“No.”

“He’s going to have a fun time getting past our darling master. The last person to come for the flower was twisted around like useless parchment.” Deucalion laughs when Derek remains stone-faced, leaning slightly to the left to see Scott better. “Be careful, little one. I’d hate to see your remains used in the master’s garden.”

“Leave us.”

“As you wish, Derek.” Deucalion gives a dramatic bow before sauntering back into the trees, the sound of bones breaking following him. Soon all Scott can see is the hulking form of a black ‘wolf, darting away with smaller, red-eyed ‘wolves following after it.

“Who was that,” Scott demands. Derek turns once he’s sure the others are gone, shoulders going slack. Scott can see the fear in his eyes now, the façade crumbling now that they’re safe.

“The Alpha of Alphas,” he answers. “It means we’re close.”

“Who’s the master he was talking about?” But Scott already knows, all those old ghost stories flooding through his mind in the space of seconds. A being made of shadows, bright green eyes that can hypnotize you if you look at them directly.

“The King in the Woods.”

_About twelve by the moon-dial, one more filmy than the rest (A kind which, upon trial, they have found to be the best) comes down, still down, and down with its centre on the crown of a mountain’s eminence, while its wide circumference in easy drapery falls over hamlets, over halls, wherever they may be._

Scott’s been gone two months by the time he and Derek make it to the edge of a clearing, moonlight the only thing to see by. It’s the first time in weeks that’s Scott’s seen the sky and he almost feels like sobbing at the cold glow washing over him.

“I can’t go any farther,” Derek says. His hands are clenched into fists, muscles spasming in his arms as he tries to move forward. “There’s magic here that’s bent on keeping the other fae out.” Scott nods, staring up at his friend.

“If I can get you the petal, will you take it to the village? Just in case?” Derek growls low in his chest and glares over Scott’s shoulder, other growls echoing among the shadows. Derek’s pack are barely visible now, three ‘wolves, a coyote, and a Kanima. “Derek? I have to know that my wife will be safe. That my _baby_ will be safe from all of this.”

“Fine,” he bites out. “Do me a favor and don’t die, McCall.” Scott grins up at him, putting as much effort as he can into it, and he can see the give in Derek’s shoulders as he forces himself to stop reacting to the magic.

“I knew we were friends.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.” He claps a hand against Scott’s shoulder, not even trying to be subtle in the way he scent-marks him. Maybe he thinks that the King in the Woods will leave Scott be if he smells like the other creatures here. Maybe it’s just a good luck sort of thing.

“I’ll see you in a bit.” Derek nods, watching as Scott turns to face the invisible barrier. He can feel the sting of magic as he starts forward, the familiar push-pull-give of a Mountain Ash circle as he forces his way into the clearing with a determined set to his jaw. He shouldn’t be able to sense something like that since he’s human but being around that stuff all his life makes him sensitive to it. Allison used to joke that he’s secretly a Werewolf, intent on corrupting the Argent line. Victoria had never found that sentiment funny, but her son had howled his laughter.

The clearing is barren, the grass dead under the soles of his feet and the pond little more than a dried-out hole in the ground. There’s no water to reflect the stars, but there is a flower. It’s smaller than Scott ever imagined it, the stem bent to overlook the pond and its petals glittering in the pale light. He takes a step forward, anxious to grab a petal and be done with this place.

He moves too fast, he knows that before the trap is triggered by one clumsy foot. One minute he’s stalking forward and the next he’s in the bottom of a hole, no pine needles to cushion his fall. Overhead is the sound of dragging feet, a voice carrying on the wind that’s both familiar and horrifying.

They’re reciting a poem.

Scott claws his way out of the hole, desperate to see who the person is pacing around in the clearing. He doesn’t notice one of his nails coming free or feel a long-buried root scraping over his cheek. He slaps a hand down on flat land, digging in and dragging himself upwards, out into the distant light of the stars again. He’s clinging to fistfuls of yellowed grass when he finally stops, a cold sweat making him shiver.

The King in the Woods is nothing like Scott expects; a tall, lithe figure with golden claws and black hands that fade to milky white halfway up the forearms. He’s dressed in a pair of black trousers, a veil made of spider webs hanging from the crown of his head, the white strands glowing in the moonlight. When he speaks, it makes something in Scott’s chest shatter.

_Did you know that sometimes the Argent boys are sacrificed? Turns out the curse works differently on them_.

“You,” Scott breathes, tears stinging his eyes. “It’s you.”

_Who am I?_

“You’re my best friend! You’re my love!” The King throws his head back and laughs, a high cackling sound like a witch stirring her cauldron. Even now, this close to his lover, the man’s name eludes him. Something tells him the name is important. Names hold power.

_I am the master of the golden flower! I am the King in the Woods!_ The man raises a hand to pull the veil off of him, dropping it to dewy grass like it means nothing to him. His features are sharp and pooled with shadows, ears pointed and decorated with small gold hopes and gems red as an Alpha’s gaze. _I am nobody. Are you nobody, too?_

Scott stands on unsteady legs, bits of grass and dirt still clinging to his palms. The King doesn’t move towards him, obsidian eyes watching him with a malicious sort of glee. Scott remembers eyes like those, ones that changed from a beautiful amber to a darker hue the older they got. He knows now it was the curse’s influence.

_Why are you here?_

“For a petal.”

_Just one? Don’t want to seem greedy?_

“I only need one petal to save your sister and niece from this curse.” The King goes so still that he could be made of stone, all mirth draining out of him at the words. “Don’t you remember Allison?” The man gives a curt shake of his head, sneering at Scott like he’s lower than the dirt on his boots.

_Do you remember me, Scotty? Or did you forget like all the others?_

“I’ve always remembered you.” Scott takes a bold step forward, towards the King rather than the flower. It’s still in his periphery, a glowing beacon of hope. He’s not leaving this clearing without one of those petals. “I remember how you used to hate baths because the water scared you.” _No water in the pond_. “I remember how you loved flowers and spent hours in the gardens.” _Be careful, little one. I’d hate to see your remains used in the master’s garden_.

_Are you sure you’re not mistaking me for a servant?_

“I never kissed a servant in the meadow when I was thirteen.” The King draws in a sharp breath and lets it out through his nose, a cloud of dark vapor. “You used to recite a poem to me, one about moonlight and a fairy-tale land. I tell it to my daughter when she’s restless.” The King bares his teeth in a snarl, sharp things that gnash together. “I _love_ you!”

_You don’t even know my name! You don’t know anything!_ There’s color in his cheeks now, a pale pink that turns his face into something more familiar to Scott. It highlights the beauty marks, the sharp cupid’s bow of his lips. Lips soft as a buttercup’s petal. _Tell me my name and I’ll let you have a petal_.

Flashes of memory drive Scott to his knees; two boys racing horses, throwing food, destroying their tutor’s carefully planned lessons. Two teenagers that just want moments of peace with the scent of flowers in the air, stealing kisses and more intimate things that no one can ever know about. Two men and barely that, dressed in wedding finery with tears making their eyes shine.

“My name is Scott McCall,” he grits out, raising his head to meet the King’s gaze. “I’m an orphan taken in by the Argent family. My wife is Allison and my daughter is Hayden. My lover was the son of a selectman that came to live with the Argents when he was two because his father and mother were killed in a fire. He was raised as an Argent, didn’t know any differently until he was fifteen and then he came to me because he felt like everything he knew was a lie.”

_Stop this!_

There are tears falling down the King’s sunken cheeks, drops of crystal nearly as bright as the flower.

“His mother was Victoria’s sister and she was cursed just like Kate. Despite it all, despite the lies, he still referred to Chris and Victoria as his parents because they’re the only ones he remembers.” He stands again and begins to walk, determined. “He was determined to never see his sister cursed, so he disappeared one day and never came back.” Scott’s less than a foot away now, can feel the cold air of the King’s breath against his face, carrying the smell of summer flowers and decay.

_Don’t do this to me, Scotty. Please don’t make me hurt you if you fail_.

“My best friend’s name is Mieczysław Argent, but he always liked to be called Stiles.”

There’s a faint pulse of magic and the King is falling to the ground with a wail, writhing as shadows ooze out of him and over the grass, sinking into the ground like blood. He flickers in and out of sight for a moment and Scott thinks he might just disappear, but then he’s solid again, chest heaving as he sucks in deeps breaths. He’s softer than he had been, the blackness and claws gone, eyes back to that stunning shade of amber when they meet Scott’s gaze.

“I guess we should get that petal to Allison before Mom tries to kill us all, huh,” Stiles rasps.

The woods change as they begin the trek back to the village, the darkness fading and the foliage becoming tamer. Derek is tense for the first week, but then he’s giving Stiles the same not-a-smile whenever the other man makes a remark about Deucalion’s lack of decency. Stiles is quieter than Scott remembers, and he catches his friend staring down at his hands as though expecting those claws to be glimmering in the dappled light. He opens up the farther they are from the clearing and, two months later, he’s outright grinning when he spots that curtain of golden sunlight.

“I’m going home,” he says, as though just now letting himself believe it. “I’m going _home_, Scotty.”

“Yeah, you’re going home.” They stop just shy of the end, the path now cleared of all roots and confusion. It’s a straight shot through the woods, the curse beginning to break apart in a series of crackling pops. “Why don’t you go first?” Stiles nods, sucking in a deep breath before stepping out into the warm summer sunshine. All the shadows seem to drain away out of the hollows of his cheeks, pooling at his feet in the shape of his form. It’s a little too out of sync to be natural, but Scott supposes the influence of the woods will never truly leave his friend.

“So, this is it,” Derek says, glancing around and studiously not meeting Scott’s gaze. His brows are twitching like he has to force them to stay down instead of relaxing, a fake scowl if Scott’s ever seen one. “Glad to finally be rid of you.”

“Don’t worry, Der. I’m gonna miss you too.” The stare Derek pins him with is entirely unimpressed, but his lip is half an inch higher than before which is the closest thing the ‘wolf ever gets to a smile. “I’ll be sure to come with Stiles on his visits to the clearing just so you don’t get bored.”

“Thanks for the warning. I’ll be sure to have my pack in the next village on those occasions.” There’s a bark behind him, Malia crouching low in the bushes and watching them with golden eyes. “Oh, hush it.” She growls, a playful sound, before tearing off at a run deeper into the woods. The others follow her lead, departing with small nips to Scott’s legs or a nose against his hip. “You’re a bad influence.”

“I’m a great influence actually. You just don’t have good taste.”

“Don’t be such a sour wolf,” Stiles calls, his eyes shut against the light. Derek rolls his eyes, rubbing his hand over Scott’s cheek before turning on his heel. He’s ten feet away before Stiles speaks again. “Hey, why is leather armor the best for sneaking?”

“A horrible influence, McCall,” Derek groans.

Time works differently outside the woods. Scott’s only been gone three hours and he’s home just in time for Hayden to wake up for the day. She clings to Stiles without any sense of hesitation, like she’s always known him.

Stiles sobs as he cradles his niece against his chest.

The petal is just as magical as it seems, the purple lines tracing Allison’s veins disappearing in seconds, her breaths evening out as the fluid in her lungs eases and vanishes. She’s awake within five hours after the tea is ingested, eyes clear for the first time in what seems like years.

“You saved me,” she whispers against Scott’s lips.

“Not just me.” He moves so she can see her brother, Stiles framed by the window and bathed in golden light. Allison’s breath hitches in her throat and then she’s launching herself out of the bed, practically tackling Stiles to the plush rug. Stiles laughs and puts up a token protest, but he’s hugging her just as tightly and he’s got his nose buried in her hair. 

“I’ve missed you so much, mischief.”

“I missed you too, trouble.”

“Where have you been all this time? We thought you were dead.”

“I went in the woods to break the curse. Turns out it isn’t as simple as I’d thought.” Allison shifts so she can look at him, running gentle fingertips over the arches of his cheeks and the curve of his upturned nose. “The story we know is wrong, time changed it and warped it into a lie. I’ll tell you the real one when you’ve had time to heal.”

Chris and Victoria stand in the doorway, the matriarch giving Scott an approving nod when he meets her eye. There are tears in her eyes as well as a silent plea that she never loses one of her children again. Scott can understand the feeling, his own baby laughing out in the hallway as her aunt Lydia tickles her.

Scott wonders if this is what pack feels like.

He thinks it is.

* * *

[This](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48627/fairy-land) is the poem I use in the story. 


	2. pay no mind to the battles you've won

It starts like this; a sunny day with a girl and a boy meeting in a meadow just shy of an enchanted wood. She’s pale with golden hair, he’s dark-skinned with hair that just barely starts to curl against his scalp. She’s human and he’s something other, something fae. Obviously they fall in love instantaneously, as all great loves do.

They meet in the meadow once a month, whenever she can sneak away from the village and he can leave the woods without an escort of Werewolves. They’re ten years old and know that they’ll be married someday, no matter what. To them, it’s the only choice possible, because that’s what happens when people love each other.

When the girl is twelve, she’s introduced to the son of a new selectman named Matthew Daehler. Her father’s hand on her shoulder is heavy, but not as heavy as her heart when he tells her that she’s meant to marry Matthew. Matthew is a year older and he smiles like he has a secret and she hates him more than she’s ever hated anyone.

Matthew moves into the Argent household and he’s content with the stipulation that she’s to keep her surname as the future matriarch. He even agrees to take her surname as a show of solidarity. It makes her father grin in approval and her seethe. Erica Argent isn’t some little girl without a thought in her head besides marriage. She’s got _plans_ and none of them include this pathetic excuse of a person.

Argent women don’t go along with decisions quietly, especially not those made by men.

“I don’t agree to the engagement,” she states, browns eyes narrowed into a ferocious glare. Matthew doesn’t flinch away like he should, his instincts are wrong for the type of husband she wants. He’s not strong, he doesn’t make the anxiety uncoil in her belly with a smile. He’s not Boyd.

“You don’t have a choice,” her father states.

And that’s when she starts to hate her father as well.

Erica sneaks out of her room when she’s fourteen, walking swiftly until she’s hidden by trees and Boyd is grinning at her. He’s warm when she hugs him, his cheek nuzzling over the top of her head. “I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Boyd murmurs. They’ve been separated for a week now, Erica kept busy by her parents and Boyd occupied by an encroaching group of humans. Matthew is the head of the group and she knows why he hates this wood; she sees the way he glares at it when he thinks no one’s looking. He hates it because he’s ignorant, because he’s unworthy of being fae.

“How have things been? I know Matthew’s getting bolder.” She pulls back so she can look up at him, running her thumb along the crease between his brows until he relaxes. “I don’t think I can control him.”

“No one can.” Boyd’s frowning, urging her farther down the path. It’s a straight thing until two miles into the wood, curving gently to the left and leading to a clearing. It isn’t a magical place, but it’s beautiful and she loves the feel of moonlight washing over her. “If he keeps trying to come in, then Deucalion will kill him. He’s the protective sort.” Erica’s grin is a fragile thing, like a teacup balanced on the edge of a table.

“Well, he is charged with protecting the King in the Woods.” Boyd shakes his head, but his expression is fond. He’s stunning in the moonlight, the silvery light gleaming against the tattoos climbing up his arms like vines. They’re blue, depicting scenes of nature and the beginning of the wood. She traces them sometimes, on those lazy nights when the time stretches out to infinity and she feels like she never has to leave.

“Have you convinced your father to cancel the marriage?”

“No, he’s being stubborn on this point.” And they both know why that is, it’s because Gerard hates these people just as much as Matthew. “I’ll be officially in charge of the Argent family in two years, if I can just push the marriage off until then we’ll be fine.”

“If you can’t, we’ll still be fine.” She turns her head to meet his gaze, eyes going hard. “He’ll grow even bolder if he thinks he has the Argent support to back him, Eri. All I have to do is wait until he’s officially in the woods before I tell Deucalion to have at it. He’s been itching for a fight since your village was constructed.”

“But you don’t believe in bloodshed.”

“Only if it’s necessary. An attacking force that means to do my people harm is enough for me to give the order. My predecessor certainly would have.”

“Your predecessor was a cryptic ass.” Boyd snorts, but even he knows that she’s speaking the truth. Alan Deaton had been a hard man even by fae standards, a Druid with cold eyes and the scars to prove his strength. Those scars marred the side of his face and blinded his left eye, carved by the Seelie Queen to mark him as the King, the twisted pink marks forming a large tree with branches that stretched over his bare scalp. “You never told me why you got tattoos instead of scars.”

“Each King gets a different mark.” They recline in dewy grass that tickles her bare feet, her head cushioned on his chest. “The one before Deaton was a Kitsune and she had hair made of fire that burned a gorgeous orange. I’m a Werewolf, so I get tattoos burned into my flesh that will always tell our story.”

“What about the one that comes after you?”

“They will be human, the first in two hundred years. I don’t know what they’ll be like.”

“I didn’t know a fae King could be human.”

“It’s rare, it takes a specific ritual. All the prophesies point to a human boy of nineteen years with a blackness in him. His family is supposed to be cursed and it’ll warp his fae shape.”

“If he’s cursed, then why not choose someone else?”

“Because that’s not how this works.” Erica’s brows furrow and she glances up at him, taking in the smooth lines of his cheeks and the slope of his nose. “The boy was chosen by the Seelie Queen a thousand years ago. Even if he wasn’t cursed, he’d still rule.”

“He doesn’t have a choice?”

“Do you have a choice about whether you become the matriarch?”

“No.”

“It’s the same for us. We’re all bound by the rules of our society.”

Matthew Daehler, Erica finds out, is very scared of heights.

She learns this after he makes a remark about the fae in Beacon Woods and she dangles him out a window.

Erica and Boyd are married the week after they turn sixteen, Deaton presiding over the ceremony and several ‘wolves in attendance to serve as witnesses. Deucalion watches on with bright red eyes and his lips quirked up in approval while the Hale brood wrestle at the sides of the clearing.

“I’ll love you forever,” Boyd promises later that night. They’re naked and alone, waist deep in the pond that had appeared just two days before after Erica accepted his proposal. Talia said it was approval from the woods, a wedding gift. The water is warm, and Erica never wants to leave it or Boyd’s arms.

“And I’ll love you even longer than that,” she whispers against his lips. They don’t leave the clearing for the rest of the night, not until dawn turns the sky into a painting and Erica has to go back to her family.

She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s pregnant with her first child.

She does end up marrying Matthew, if for nothing else than to keep him from storming the woods. He never actually realized how dominant the women of the Argent family are until Gerard is buried and Erica has free reign to do as she pleases. The first new rule is that all of Daehler’s men are to keep away from Beacon Woods or be locked in the jail for a week.

A month after her marriage, she begins to show signs of pregnancy. Matthew fumes because he knows the child isn’t his, they never even consummated their marriage. He also refuses to accuse her of adultery because it would shame him. Erica sees this as a complete win on her part and is excited to tell Boyd all about it that evening.

Boyd laughs for five minutes straight and then runs off to tell Kali.

Henri Argent is born in May and he’s the most perfect child Erica’s ever seen in her life. She just knows he’ll do something great one day. He takes after his father in everything but ruthlessness. _That_ he gets from his mother. He also makes it a habit to puke on Matthew whenever the man comes anywhere near him. That’s another thing that Boyd raves about to Kali because obviously his son has good instincts.

His little sister is born a year later and she looks enough like Erica that Matthew can attempt to pass her off as his own. He’s never prepared for her first word to be _lizard_ when she’s looking him dead in the eye.

Peter brags about that to anyone that will listen.

It’s when her kids are grown and have families of their own that Matthew Daehler decides to act. He’s grown older, nearing fifty, and he’s still filled with an intense hate of the fae. He follows her through the woods one night, staying hidden so that she doesn’t realize he’s behind her.

She makes it to the clearing and the moonlight makes her golden hair seem to glow. Her husband embraces her like it’s the first time, his arms tight and warm, a band of protection around her. This is the best part of her evenings, wrapped up in her husband’s arms and thinking of her children. Henri and Marie-Jeanne have a little boy named Christopher that’s barely a month old while Heather and Oliver have a newborn named Claudia.

They’ll talk for hours and Erica will trace the blue lines of Boyd’s tattoos, but that’s not how it goes tonight. Tonight they will embrace each other and then Matthew will step out of the shadows with a jar of Mountain Ash, having already sprinkled most of the Ash in a circle around the clearing. The Alpha of Alphas can’t get in and the King in the Woods can’t get out.

“What the hell are you doing,” Erica demands as she steps forward.

“What should have been done years ago,” Matthew snarls. “I’m going to kill that monster and then I’m going to kill all the others. Now step aside, Erica.”

“Put down the Mountain Ash and I might let you live.” Her voice has gone cold and her posture shifts. Argent women are, beyond everything, fighters. They make the decisions and they come up with strategies. Men like Matthew are just a necessity. “Break the barrier.”

“I won’t hesitate to kill you, too.” There’s a sound of wood breaking apart behind her and she knows without turning that her husband has shifted. He’s a massive wolf that almost towers over Erica, eyes glowing like embers and teeth sharper than the best steel. Matthew should be terrified, but he only smiles. “You’re not the first Werewolf I’ve encountered.”

“The fae are common. Everyone’s seen at least one ‘wolf around here.” They come freely into the village, trading fresh fruit and meat for books. The fae, above all else, have a strong desire for knowledge.

“Not in my grandfather’s village. They’re considered monsters there, a story meant to keep children in line.” His eyes are dark, black as coals and sunk deep into his face. She thinks of what Boyd had told her all those years ago, about how the next King will be a cursed human. Does it start with Matthew?

“What is your village?” In the entirety of their association, Matthew’s never once spoken of his family or home. She hadn’t even noticed that until now, too wrapped up in her hatred of him.

“It used to be ten miles from here until it burned to cinders by these _things_.” Boyd growls low in his throat, claws digging into the earth. “You may have heard of it.” Erica has, a village occupied by Sparks and Druids, a filthy group of people that spared no love for anyone that wasn’t human in origin. The Argents hunt those who hunt them, but the village of Canaan just hunted.

“I should have killed you the second you entered Beacon.”

“Yes,” Matthew chuckles,” you should have.” Boyd lurches forward, swiping a massive paw through the air and knocking Matthew to the side. Matthew bounces when he hits the ground, rolling and sliding across the earth until a tree stops him. He lies there a moment, long enough for Erica to think he’s dead, and then he’s letting out a rasping laugh. There’s blood on his lips when he stands, a thin line of it trailing down his chin. “Come on now, ‘wolf, you can do better than that!”

“Just stop this!” Erica moves to step between them, but Matthew holds up his hand and some force binds her in place, the grass lengthening and wrapping tightly around her ankles. “What is this?”

“Magic, dear heart. I’m a Spark.” Erica growls and tries to break free, but the grass becomes thicker than she can tear. “Shift back, ‘wolf! Make this a fair fight!” The muscles along Boyd’s flank ripples, lip pulled up in a snarl. “Come on!” The muscles ripple again, spreading through him until Boyd is a man again, standing naked in the moonlight.

“Release my wife,” Boyd demands. There are others pacing the barrier now, dozens of glowing eyes in all shades. Erica can make out Deucalion, the way he scrapes his claws at the barrier until they’re broken and bloody.

“I’ll release her when I’m done.” Magic crackles around him, streaks of white light that make him look too pale, too gaunt. Sparks aren’t mean to be like this; they’re meant to heal the earth, Matthew’s just killing it. The grass around him is curling and dying, spreading slowly outward.

“Then I’ll kill you and use your innards to nourish my woods.” They move at the same time, meeting in a violent clash of magic and claws. Blood sprays across the dying grass, absorbed into the soil. Boyd howls as he tears his claws through Matthew’s shoulder and Matthew roars as magic lances through Boyd. It almost appears to be an even fight.

Almost.

Boyd has his hand raised again, ready to deliver the killing blow when Matthew’s fist lands a solid punch against his chest, sinking in past flesh and bone. Boyd hunches over with a surprised grunt, the red of his eyes flickering for a moment as he stares at Matthew in shock.

“Never trust a Spark, ‘wolf.” Matthew twists his hand and wrenches it out, covered in blood and tissue. There’s something in his fist, something that moves to a familiar rhythm that makes Erica _scream_ because she knows that rhythm all too well. He’s holding Boyd’s heart. Boyd takes a stumbling step back, his legs buckling and sending him backwards into the pond with a splash.

“No!” Erica drops to her knees, fists pounding against the ground. “No!” The earth trembles beneath her, rippling much like Boyd’s muscles had just moments ago. The trees shake violently until their leaves litter the ground, the green shriveling until its little more than a husk. It spreads beyond the Mountain Ash, the ‘wolves flinching back and looking around in fear. The wood is dying with its King.

“I’m not quite finished.” Matthew’s boots come into Erica’s sight, supple brown leather that’s been splattered with royal blood. He kneels down, lifting her chin with a bloodied hand until she’s looking at him. “I want to ruin you, Erica. I want to break you completely. What’s the best way to do that?”

“Leave her,” Talia screams. Her eyes are a brilliant red, flanked by Laura and Peter. With a flick of Matthew’s wrist, flames lick up their sides and wrap them in blazing cocoons. It doesn’t take long for their dying wails to stop. Erica can’t move to help them even if she wants to at this point, the grass winding its way up to her thighs.

“Just kill me,” she pants, casting a glance over at Boyd. She can barely make him out in the cloudy water, reaching out a hand and letting her fingers graze the sole of his foot. He’s gone cold already.

“Oh, I’m going to kill you,” Matthew promises. “But first I’m going to _curse_ you and your entire line. Once a generation, a daughter will be consumed by wolfsbane. They will die slowly, and you will be the only cure.” There’s a wet squelch when he tightens his hold on Boyd’s heart and then he slams it onto the ground not even an inch away from her.

The magic is as hot as fire as it spreads through her, the world around her turning blurry and then dark as she doubles over. She can feel herself growing smaller, changing into something other than human but not quite fae. When it’s done, Erica doesn’t feel anything. When it’s done, Erica is dead but the curse lives on.

Erica and Boyd are ten years old and they’re in love. They sit in a meadow just shy of an enchanted wood, curled together among the wildflowers and sunshine. Erica’s head rests over Boyd’s heart, learning a rhythm that will become her favorite song in time. Boyd has an arm around her and a smile on his lips, and he recites a poem that their great-grandson will always remember.

_O’er the strange woods, o’er the sea—over spirits on the wing, over every drowsy thing. And buries them up quite in a labyrinth of light…._


End file.
